Perfect Strangers
by trufflemores
Summary: 3.23-4.01. Iris visits Earth-2 Barry to help ease the ache of her Barry's absence.


It is a scientifically proven fact that Iris West-Allen is the most beautiful human being on the planet.

Barry knows this, because he is a scientist, and the proof walks before him, a modern Artemis full of grace and power, protective, self-contained, the closest to divine that has ever walked his Earth. He watches her with unapologetic wonder, wishing he was more artistic, so he could sketch her and preserve her for future generations seeking inspiration from the despairs of their time. Hers is a rare and illustrious kind of beauty, present in every expression of her existence: her words, her laugh, her smile against his shoulder, her walk, her hands, her _eyes_ , her very breath in her chest. He looks at her and his day improves; he thinks of her and his mood elevates. She is a gift, an unpresumptuous reminder of the profundity of life and living with her, and he's half-afraid and half-hopeful that he'll spend the rest of his life looking at her and it still won't be enough.

She's also at work and can't accompany him to this evening's lecture on transluminal travel and the warping of space-time, which is genuinely a shame, as it is a deliciously complex subject. To the convention's credit, there _are_ plenty of beautiful women here, but none of them are _Iris_. For Barry, smiling politely at anyone who meets his gaze and ducking his head in a modest bow, the ring on his finger is far more comforting than any more immediate offers. He would rather be separated from her for the rest of his life, forced to live only with the thought of her, than pursue a successor. None could rise to the challenge; there will never be another Iris West-Allen.

And she is _his_. It still bubbles pleasantly in his chest like a warm drink on a cold autumn night. They first met at a crime-scene investigation, he the clever CSI, she the cool journalist standing on the sidelines. He wanted to introduce himself with some dignity preserved – even though he was still blushing from way she had looked at him and _smiled_ , wow – and then he tripped over a curb and face-planted.

He did not break his glasses, which was a plus, and she held out a hand to help him stand, which was an even bigger plus. Before he could put his foot in his mouth he had her number, and they worked on the case for days, picking up each other's favorite coffees and reuniting with the enthusiasm of old friends.

Old friends with some decidedly _unfriendly_ perks, Barry thought, smiling idly at a fountain in the main hall. To be fair, he always considered their behavior to be _friendly_. Not that he would greet Hal or Eddie with the same passion, but he loved the way they laughed and mingled, as thoroughly satisfying as any dance or fancy dinner they'd ever shared. It felt like the sincerest expression of friendship, a wave of affection that couldn't be captured verbally and demanded kinetic compensation. Barry was a happy participant. So was Iris. It was a perfect arrangement. No two people had ever been more in love, he was sure.

Pleasantly fuzzy from his second glass of wine, Barry turns around and blinks twice when he sees her, wearing decidedly civilian attire with her hair down and watching him with enraptured stillness. His face lights up and he knows it and doesn't care, sifting through the crowd separating them until he is right in front of her, taking her hands gently and saying all in a rush, "Oh my goodness, _Iris_ , I didn't think you were coming, when did you—? Is everything all okay?" Tone turning serious, he adds, "Did something happen?"

She doesn't say a word, and now he really is concerned, rubbing her arms slowly, hoping to coax conversation from her. "Iris?" He reserves pet names for private, too mortified to use them in public even though she's openly referred to him as things like "honey-bear" where other people can certainly hear. He considers it penance for future crimes he has yet to commit. When tears form in her eyes, he breaks his own rule, squeezing her upper arms gently and whispering, "Darling, what's wrong?"

Guiding them gently towards the wall, a little more out of sight, he gives her room, waiting.

She breathes in a rush, "Oh my God you're real."

"Um." Reaching up to adjust his glasses, Barry frowns. "Yes? Are you – drunk?"

"You're real," she repeats, reaching up to cup his face, and he nods, her hands insisting on staying. "Oh my God." She brushes his cheekbones and he blushes because _honey_ , he's never been tremendously fond of public displays of affection, still struggles to accept that she is actually and really his and the wedding rings on their fingers are genuine, that—

There's no ring.

It hits him all at once, there's-no-ring, and he waits for it to process but it won't. Because – "You're – Iris?" He doesn't expect her to understand, reaching up, holding her left hand in place, and there is no wedding band. He is prepared to justify to an absurd degree that this isn't happening, that she lost it, that her odd behavior is all due to the guilt associated with such a thing, but he looks in her eyes and _knows_ , and he can't totally define the emotion in his chest.

Other than it hurts, and he knows it's her pain.

"Oh," he says, rather eloquently. Her hands drop as recognition finally registers on his face, expression softening, flabbergasted because this – is – a lot to process, almost too much, it's supposed to be a _normal_ night, he's already met his "Earth-1" counterpart, his mind has been blown enough for one lifetime, and yet – living proof it hasn't. At least, not according to the universe. "Iris?" he tries, like saying her name will flip the switch and give him back _his_ Iris, but she's still there, and, oh, wow, this isn't a dream.

Staying on top of it, he takes her hand gently and instructs, "Follow me." Leading, he guides her through the crowd, away from the atrium, smiling pleasantly at anyone who looks his way. The cavernous hallway stretches on forever, but the night is cool when they step outside. Unconsciously, he shrugs out of his jacket and offers it to her, bare-armed.

She takes it slowly and draws it over her shoulders, a strange sort of energy passing between them, he wanting to give to an Iris that isn't his, she wanting to take from a Barry that isn't hers. He calls a cab. He holds open the door for her and she slides into the backseat like she's done it a thousand times. He shuffles in after her, very gentleman-like, maintaining a proximity that is close but not overbearing. For most of the ride, their intertwined fingers are the only acknowledgment of their relationship, their faux history, their inherited love. His head is spinning even as she rests hers against his shoulder and he forces himself to exhale slowly and deeply before he passes out.

At home, he once again takes the lead, showing her inside, and it feels so familiar and strange that he can't make out the urge to kiss or hug or simply give space, but either way he wants her there. _That_ he knows, overwhelmingly, almost overpoweringly. He wants her there.

Iris says, "This is beautiful."

Barry reaches up to tug his collar, at a loss because she picked it out, really, he just said _yes_ the second he stepped inside the bungalow. "It is," he agrees at last, toeing off his shoes and leaving them neatly aligned by the door. "I – I'll make coffee," he says, giving himself a clear mission and her an opportunity to acquaint herself with the space—

Shoes already off, she steps forward and hugs him tightly, and any thoughts of coffee vanish as he brings his own arms around her, cradling her to his chest.

"Whatever it is," he says softly, "whatever I can do – I'm here."

She sobs and he presses a kiss to the top of her head, squeezing her gently and repeating her name, over and over, " _Iris, Iris, Iris_ ," like it will help. Crying, she doesn't respond out loud. He holds her, rocks her lightly, tries to assure with his presence that he's listening to words she cannot say, and he doesn't need to ask to _know_ what happened.

 _Her Barry died._

It leaves his own chest feeling tight, a strange sort of gratitude overcoming him because he is still _here_ , alive, and he gets to love his Iris.

"I'm sorry," he tells her, like it makes a difference, and maybe it does, and maybe it can't, but holding on, he lets her grieve for him.

* * *

His own Iris is home just shy of midnight.

They're sitting on the couch and not-his-Iris – _not-his-Iris-but-always-Iris_ – is lying next to him, eyes shut, her head on his chest, his own arm draped around her. His-Iris looks at them from the doorway and Barry wants to get up, to talk to her, to explain the situation before the worry in his chest builds to actual panic that he's somehow cheating on her, but she just holds up a finger to her lips in an unmistakable _shh_ gesture, and he obeys.

He strokes not-his-Iris' arm and watches his-Iris with a mixture of entrancement and longing, wishing he could somehow split himself in two and comfort both.

But his-Iris is strong and makes herself at home without making a sound, putting on a pot of coffee and offering him a small smile like she knew he was going to, and that dizzy overwhelmed feeling is back as not-his-Iris breathes out slowly against him.

Resting his chin on top of not-his-Iris' head, he closes his eyes and breathes in the warm scent of coffee and the knowledge that his-Iris knows exactly what she's doing.

* * *

Turns out this is the _Earth-1_ Iris.

Over three cups of coffee the truth comes out, and his-Iris holds court by the fireplace mantle while not-his-Iris sits on the opposite side of Barry on the couch, their legs resting side-by-side. Barry thought it was strange meeting his own twin, someone who looked _exactly_ like him, _was_ him, and yet was also decidedly _not_ him (because apparently his doppelgangers were _not_ very gentlemanlike; getting frisky with a married woman? For real?). It's actually stranger meeting _Iris'_ twin, like trying to choose which sun to love.

It shouldn't be hard. After all, there are a hundred billion trillion stars in the _known_ universe.

Yet there is still only one star around which the Earth drifts predictably, year-after-year.

Both of them are _it_.

Not-his-Iris says, "I'm sorry."

His-Iris replies, "Don't be."

Barry agrees, "We're happy to have you, really. Couldn't be happier. Practically been expecting you. I mean, we weren't, but if we _were_ – that's not to say you're unwelcome! Just – unexpected. In a good way. A good surprise."

His-Iris says, "Honey," and Barry ducks his head, which is all the _yeah-no-less-is-more-uh-huh_ she needs to hear. "Is there anything we can do to help?" she prompts.

Not-his-Iris shakes her head. "It's – complicated."

"You said he's – stuck in the Speed Force," Barry adds, frowning. "What is that, exactly?"

Not-his-Iris smiles ruefully. "Million-dollar-question."

* * *

Sometime between two and three in the morning, Barry dozes off.

He wakes when the weight at his feet disappears, blinking fuzzily up at not-his-Iris. "Hey," he whispers, sitting up slowly, back stiff. He's only twenty-nine; if he really this old already? "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she assures, voice equally soft. "Go back to sleep."

"Can I help?" he tries, feeling somewhat foolish, almost disappointing.

With affectionate eyes, she leans down and cradles his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead and lingering for a long moment. Barry lifts his hands and closes his fingers gently around her wrists, holding her there. She's warm and soft and very Iris. Very, very Iris. "I just wanted to see you," she admits, leaning back, letting go. "Even if it's—"

"Not him," Barry finishes, blinking starry-eyed up at her. Then, in a slow, confused tone, he asks, "Where's my—?"

Not-his-Iris nods at the stairs. Barry exhales. Bed calls him. Still. He strokes her wrists, trying to convey apology and _I'm-here-for-you_ in one.

"I have to go," Iris says.

"Why?"

He doesn't even know why he wants to keep her, only that the thought of sending her back out alone hurts. It feels like he's abandoning her.

 _Her Barry died_.

He's not dead, though – just gone. Indefinitely. To a place they can't reach.

"Because this isn't my home," she tells him, brushing a hand through his hair like she can't resist, and he closes his eyes because he can't, either. "You're not him."

"I'm sorry," Barry murmurs, looking up at her.

"Don't be," Iris echoes, and steps back.

She walks alone to the door, alone out into his world, and he lingers in his own space for a moment, dazzled by the unreal nature of his own life, _other worlds,_ before shuffling slowly to his feet.

He follows her path and opens the door, but she's already gone.

Shutting it gently behind him, he pads upstairs.

Asleep, his Iris doesn't wake when he slides into the space next to her, reaching out and cuddling her, folding his arms around her, needing to protect her from what he knows he can't stop.

 _I don't want anything to happen to you_ , he thinks, pressing his forehead against the back of her shoulder, and a sleepy hand trails back and rests on his head, tangled for a moment in his hair, a barely conscious acknowledgement of his presence.

 _I'm right here_.

It is – and always will be – enough for him.

* * *

On another Earth, another Iris waits six painstaking months for _her_ Barry to come home.

The hug he gives her upon his return makes every second in between worth the wait.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Three things before I leave you:  
1\. Cisco brought Iris to Earth-2, and back home. He gave her a timetable, hence why she says she has to leave.  
2\. Iris took off her ring after Barry left because she doesn't want to explain to strangers that they're "not engaged."  
3\. "Perfect Strangers" refers to how perfectly well-suited Earth-1 Iris and Earth-2 Barry are for each other, even though they are, indeed, "strangers."

Hope you enjoyed!


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